


Paper Lanterns

by BasilGrey



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Character studies, Drabbles, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Has nobody really written angsty ZT and Demanitus friendship yet?, How has it been a YEAR since Pascal's Dragon aired already?, Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot collection, Pretty much all the characters at some point - Freeform, Tags to be added as we go!, Underrated Filler Episode Exploration, Zhan Tiri used BLIZZARD, everyone is sleeping so hard on Nigel' and Frederic's tragic backstories, hold my hot cocoa, it's gotta be scary to be encased in amber, now featuring: dragons eating cookies inside blanket forts, the general gamut of drabble genres, there’s more in them too guys!!, where did last year even GO, why is it never effective, wow say that five times fast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasilGrey/pseuds/BasilGrey
Summary: A collection of shortTangled: The Seriesoneshots and drabbles! Mostly found family and fluff. (The angst is hiding behind a tree with a baseball bat, waiting for when you least expect it.)Now up: Dragons. He could still see the fire engulfing his village, green flames roaring high against a dark sky full of wings. It had taken years before he could close his eyes and see anything else.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 38





	1. Amber - Quirin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This will be where I'll put shorter works like drabbles, short pieces, and character studies that don't really need to be standalones. Unless I do some AUs, all of these will be as canon-compliant as possible!
> 
> (Also, fair warning, that angst is closer than I made it sound. XD In my humble opinion, the best angst has some fluff and the best fluff has some angst, so expect lots of both in these!)
> 
> This was actually one of the very first things I wrote for this fandom, back before Season 3 aired. We didn't know whether or not Quirin would make it back then, so all sorts of theories were going around. (I was on team "I don't think he could have lived for a year with no air, but maybe someone's healing powers will be able to revive him?". I think Rapunzel’s Return surprised everybody with how it resolved that part of the plot!)
> 
> ~~I'm also not exactly sure why AO3 added "- Freeform" to exactly one of my freeform tags, but... I guess I'm rolling with it! XD~~
> 
> I’ll try to update this regularly, at least for a while! Enjoy!

His lungs had long since given out.

There was no scrambling for air—not now. There was no more clawing for a way to keep himself alive. There were no more silent gasps as he stretched his chin up to keep himself above the thick golden crystal.

It did not crush him, and for that he was grateful. But it _enveloped_ him, closing him in tightly with curling tendrils that stretched and grew taller and broader every minute, tendrils formed from the stones that did not break.

He was able to write to his son, in hurried and jagged script that he hoped would explain, and for that, he was grateful.

He was able to _raise_ his son, and for that, he was grateful.

He was able to protect his son— _but he couldn't now; had he been able to be a father long enough?_ —and in no world would he ever wish otherwise.

But it was hard not to feel the sting of pain and sorrow and all-encompassing fear, and hear _"Dad; DAD! O-Oh—hold on Dad; hold on! I-I'm gonna go get help!"_ ringing over and over and over again in his ears.

It was hard not to panic in the last moments. There was still so much left to do.

His duty to the King, his duty to _both_ _kings_ , his duty as a knight and a leader and a farmer and a husband—

His duty as a _father_ , he had failed.

He was trained not to cry out. It was worthless to show pain. Still, as memories and images of his life and his _son_ , _his precious son_ filled his eyes, and as the stone around him tightened its grip and crept quickly up his throat and jaw and face, it was hard not to spend his last breath in the cry of a dying man.

But he gritted his teeth and kept it inside, just like he had done with everything else.


	2. Storm - Zhan Tiri & Demanitus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're back! To those of you in the US, happy Fourth of July! (And a happy non-capitalized, more ordinary fourth of July to those of you who live elsewhere! And apologies to any of you in the UK. I promise we're only setting off the minimum amount of fireworks to celebrate. You're always invited to come eat barbecue and go bald eagle-watching with us! XD)
> 
> Just from the legends and details we have to go on from the show, it seems like Demanitus had to banish Zhan Tiri twice—once in the flashback we're shown in Plus Est En Vous, when she was a human who was fighting her old partner with a boomerang (from hearing them talk in that scene, it seems like the feelings of betrayal were still fairly fresh on both sides, and considering she's human then, I assume that was the first time), and a second time after Demanitus' disciples betrayed him and summoned her back.
> 
> I like to headcanon that the Lost Realm—which we're told can change you permanently—plus Zhan Tiri's dark magic and greed for power might've been what kickstarted her whole monster form/shapeshifter ability. I feel like maybe it was only after her time there that she was able to take whatever form she wished? In that case, it would’ve been after that that she took over the Great Tree and sent the blizzard on Corona—forcing Demanitus to eventually banish her again, to the eerie purple realm that we see in Painter's Block and in the dream that the Enchanted Girl gave Varian. (The reason I think two different realms _might've_ been involved is mostly on account of the Lost Realm being so green and relatively cheerful compared to what we were led to expect, and the fact that Sugracha, who we saw get kicked by Fidella into the realm where ZT was imprisoned, was nowhere to be seen in the Lost Realm.)
> 
> Anyway, I don't think I've seen any fics about Demanitus and Zhan Tiri back in their day yet, and that needed to change! I am 1000% down for some friendship angst with these two. I didn't think all my theorizing through before I wrote this, so it's a little loose on how well it goes with that. This one probably takes place fairly early on after she attained her powers, but early enough that she doesn't have complete mastery of them. Enjoy!

_"ZHAN TIRI!"_

She could hear his voice being whipped about in the winter wind, a wild and icy storm that hooked around him like talons under her newfound control.

Yet, Demanitus plowed forward, shoving up drifts of the deepening snow, and she narrowed her eyes at the approaching figure.

Before she could spit at him or increase the winds tenfold, he stopped—silhouetted like an ancient statue in the blizzard, shoulders bowed and voice weary.

"Tell me," he commanded, though his tone fell sorrowful and low. "Are you well?"

Was she _well?_ Was she _WELL?_

"Oh, _certainly_ ," Zhan Tiri sneered, because that was akin to asking if her storms and ice _wouldn't_ leave Corona in utter ruin. "Or as well as one _can_ be when one's supposed _friend_ subjects them to ten lifetimes of torture!"

Perhaps time passed more quickly in other realms; perhaps time was lost altogether. Perhaps it changed and warped and became malformed—everything _else_ did in that accursed place. It took as much dark magic as she could muster to control such a thing.

Not as though _he_ would know. He knew _nothing;_ he would never subject himself to endless green clouds and chthonic creatures and misery and madness; not for more than a day; he would never even _know_ what he so easily condemned her to and forced her to survive—

"The Lost Realm is more harmless than our own to those of good intent!" his silhouette boomed through the gale, because of anything otherwise he would never know, of _course_ he would never know, he was so selfishly selfless that he would never stoop to understand.

 _He should know,_ a minuscule part of her whispered, a part of her she'd spent years diminishing until it almost wasn't there. There was no use in having _any_ part of you that continually tried to desire amends rather than revenge. Still, he had opened a portal to a place he had been to and studied and _should have understood how much she would hate._ He should have understood what she meant to accomplish. He knew ancient powers, and he knew her—or at least, he had, once. _He's been there._

" _Good_ by whose standards?" she snapped. _Good_ , good, his only concern was ever _good_. What about better? Did he so hate the thought that maybe she had found something better? Who decided what was _good_ and what was right and what was worthy of pain? "Your own?"

"You gave me no choice," his voice said, loud and hollow like it always was when he spoke to her these days.

"There is always a choice, you fool," Zhan Tiri spat, anger roiling up inside of her at his relentless stupidity. How someone so intelligent could choose to follow a path of such idiocy, she had no idea. Could he still not see it? All this time of her _showing_ him what they could do without his self-imposed shackles of _being_ _good_ , and he still would not _consider_ it? Would he turn his back on her _again?_

Though the blinding snow ebbed as her focus went elsewhere, she still could see little of him but a dark silhouette with a hood and billowing cloak. His posture, more than ever, appeared aged and tired.

"There is no choice for me," Demanitus replied lowly, with conviction that weighed him down to earth and would _always_ prevent him from rising, "but to do right."

Anger welled up in her until it engulfed her like a hurricane, and her lip curled to show sharp canines, eyes flashing black with magic. She had not sought power over otherworldly change during her time with the Lost for nothing.

"Then may it be your _DOWNFALL_ ," she hissed, voice warping into something eldritch as she flicked a forked tongue.

She attacked him, then, and he hardly fought back.


	3. Dragons - Nigel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Apologies for not updating as much as I meant to—I have a lot of drabbles started, but very few of them seem to end up finishing themselves in a timely manner. It’s so weird how that doesn’t happen by itself. It’s almost like I need to just finish more of the many fics I start drafting or something. XD
> 
> To celebrate the one-year anniversary of _Pascal's Dragon_ airing—the episode that kicked off the very last batch of S3 episodes; the ones that led up to the finale—here's a oneshot! (A oneshot that’s two days late for said anniversary, whoops. XD) Personally, I really liked that we got to learn more about Nigel? I always love finding out the ~~angsty~~ backstories behind side characters, especially for the ones who may not always seem immediately likable on the surface. It gives them another layer of depth that’s really cool to see. There's more in _everybody,_ just like the series says!
> 
> I'll try to post something (maybe not in this particular fic) for the anniversary of each episode leading up to at least Cassandra's Revenge! Next week will be a Captain-centric _Islands Apart_ oneshot. Keep an eye out for that if you’re interested, and feel free to join me in counting down to the finale’s first anniversary!
> 
> Enjoy!

It had been an act of kindness, really, when Prince Frederic had allowed him to serve as a royal advisor.

Those in authority at the castle knew what he'd done, as a small boy. They had to—it was a matter of national security, knowing _why_ a village had been so suddenly razed by dragons. He was almost as certain that at least some of them knew the way he tended to _talk,_ as well—and he would readily admit that by his judgement, at least, a barely-of-age boy with an instinctive country drawl and a history of inciting the only dragon attack in the last _two hundred years_ was not the prime candidate for a position that had anything to do with the royal family.

And yet, somehow—whether it was by recommendation from his relatives who worked in legislature, or simply by his own merit, from practically burying himself alive in his studies as a young man—he had been accepted as one of the advisors to the Prince. Prince Frederic was a quiet young man, a bit awkward and more than a bit aware of that fact. He seemed grateful for good advice, as well as for company—he seemed to consider Nigel a friend, even after being wed to the adventurous princess he’d been courting. Sooner than anyone had wished, the prince became king—and suddenly, being an accurate advisor to him was of the utmost importance.

Nigel strove very hard to be worthy of such a position. The safety of the kingdom— _from there on out, at least_ —depended on his knowledge of old kingdom-wide laws, and of new local strifes, and of what was best to be done in even the smallest emergencies. It was a job at which one could not be found lacking.

Still, though, even today—even _now,_ long after he had aided in organizing the search for a mystical flower during the near-death of the Queen; long after the horrific time following the King's voice ringing out through the castle, _My child! They've taken my child!_ resounding through the halls in a way no one could ever forget, and after many long years of solemnity had passed into a time of reunion and rejoicing and much readjusting—some things hung over his head like a shadow.

It was worst during a storm. The sound of pounding rain and the murkiness of the sky could cover up anything until it was too close to warn anyone, too close for the people to _escape._ He could still faintly hear the roaring, and tearing of rooftops from their rafters, and the beating of leathery wings, all at the utmost edge of his hearing.

His mind was playing tricks on him, he knew. But he would be a disgrace to his kingdom if he ever stopped waking up to check if it _was_ only his memories echoing those terrible sounds.

It had been silly, he supposed, to become so attached to such a creature. He'd always been forbidden pets, as a child—having parents who worked in castle government left them with little time to supervise him in much other than the constant stream of political studies and various tutors. He had been very young. It was an age where it was difficult to prefer studies to the fascinating play of lights and shadows that found their way to the wooded paths on his wanderings in the towering old forests of south Corona.

It hadn't seemed right to let any fellow young thing look so _alone_. The tiny dragon had been curled up with its nose under the fringe of its tail, surrounded by tall grasses and opalescent shards of dragon’s-egg shell, its eyes large and sad. It had weighed so little that it was hardly an effort to carry it back home, murmuring reassurances all the while, as it tucked its head in the crook of his shoulder.

He liked to think that the little creature hadn't minded him. It certainly hadn't seemed to, in the warm hours of the afternoon they'd spent curled up in his bedroom while the dragon recovered its strength, reading books under a blanket together and collectively consuming all the milk and cookies in the house.

(Somewhere, in all of that—perhaps as he’d held the book up in his little hands for the dragon to see the illustrations, or when the dragon would politely take a stack of cookies in its beak and swallow them in one gulp with a happy grumble— _something_ shifted. The dragon’s eyes seemed much more focused on the text as they read through a storybook of adventures and explorations, as if it were reading along. When he tried to turn the page, once, the dragon leaned forward toward the book with a bewildered look in its eyes, and it gave a little squawk that sounded very clearly to his ears as one that meant _Wait, I wasn’t done_.)

It hadn't been—it wasn't _his fault_ , that adult dragons had such a sense of smell. How was he to know the infant hadn't been abandoned on purpose? There were no known dragon nests nearby, at least not in the parts of the Old Southern Forest that anyone dared venture into. It hadn't occurred to him in his wildest imaginations that a pack of _dragons_ —flying reptiles larger than any battle horse, with teeth arrayed like his father's collection of war-daggers, and breath of a fire hotter than anything men could stoke in a forge—would come. That they would tear down the village, one of the oldest villages in Corona, to find their lost infant that they seemed to think had been stolen from them.

(If he had felt a thin vein of understanding and fear when that same desperate fury appeared on the King’s countenance one day, well... there was a reason for it.)

He could still see the fire engulfing his village, green flames crackling high against a dark sky full of wings, as if it had happened once upon a nightmare, or only last week. It had taken years before he could close his eyes and see anything else.

He'd had to let his ( _only_ ) friend go, in the end. It had felt wrong, to sneak out through the collapsing side streets and run to the mountainous hillsides as fast as his tiny feet could carry him and his burden—but nothing could feel worse the fear and panic and horrible guilt that came from watching his village burn _on his account_ outside his window.

He'd set the little blue dragon down on the hillside. The grass there had already been scorched in long stripes. Maybe nothing else would burn. Maybe the dragons would all go back to their home in the mountains south of the kingdom, where people had always said they lived and _stayed._

The baby dragon had squawked at the sky—a loud, growly cry, one that seemed fearful and worried and still _sad_ at all the destruction—and before there was time to get out of the way, a massive green dragon swooped down and landed with force that shook the ground, standing over its young protectively. It had lowered its massive head and stared sharply at him, eyes slitted and teeth bared in warning.

The baby dragon—his _friend_ , he’d thought with a pang of more than just fear in his heart—cowered guiltily beneath the shadow, peering out at Nigel with sorrowful eyes. It had looked apologetic, like it hadn't wanted this.

(It had _tried_ to step out and go forward, perhaps to nuzzle him or show some sign of friendship, he was sure of it—but the huge dragon's foot shifted slightly, bumping it protectively back into place.)

The adult dragon spread its wings like a canopy, blocking out what little of the moon and stars could still be seen amidst the smoke from burning houses.

Then, it gently picked up the little one in its jagged maw and took off, shooting upward into the sky. The attack ceased, after that. Ten men and one dragon had lain badly wounded in the smoldering village streets. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could see and _forget,_ as a child—the looks on his parents’ sooty faces when he’d clung to them, sobbing and trying to explain what he’d done, were not something his conscience could let him live without near-constant reminders of it.

(It was shameful to admit, now—but he had been barely seven. He had sobbed into his parents’ shaking arms until the sobbing turned to coughing. He coughed up fire for the better part of an hour. No one knew why—and the murmurs of _Dragon’s curse?_ had frightened him.)

(He had been blessed with a very merciful family, who’d told only a merciful captain and king. He’d likely have grown up [ _rightfully_ ] ostracized, if they’d spoken of what he’d done to anyone else.)

He was not an expert at dealing with calamity. Corona was known far and wide as a kingdom of peace—only rarely did disaster on such a terrible scale occur. But he'd had experience with it, _more_ than enough, and it was hard not to live a life filled with an ill-gotten dread, awash with a guilt that drove a person to wish more than anything to keep such threats from harming so many people again. He would _not_ allow more blood to stain his hands simply because he didn’t deem it right to _speak up_ before some possible terror came to pass.

So when the blizzard struck, and the kingdom’s capital was in more danger than one man could possibly be, and when the guard simply wouldn’t know that a boy had gripped the crown Princess’s shoulders and _shaken her to the point she winced_ unless he told them, and when that same Princess seemed amiable to the idea of letting her lizard companion keep an opalescent gray orb that he _knew_ looked familiar—

Well, he had to say _something_. He wasn’t one to let those things happen again.


End file.
